Ask the Moon

Ask the moon, you tell me. I ask you for a bourbon cream, you tell me to ask the moon. I ask you if you’d like peppermint tea or camomile, you tell me to ask the moon. I ask you to marry me, you tell me to ask the moon in the same tone of voice you used when I asked you about the bourbon cream.

That’s why I’m standing out here, hoping to catch a glimpse of the moon between the clouds so I can ask it the same silly question it must get asked a dozen times a day. About the marriage, I mean, not the bourbon creams.

With seven billion people in the world, how many tortured lovers must be staring up at it right now, hoping for some sort of answer in the photons bouncing off it? How many of us idiots are letting to cold numb our feet, seeking the straight answer our lovers won’t give us. No, don’t answer that, I’ve already got one question more than the moon ever answers in one night. I’m pointing out that I’m expecting more guidance out of a lump of rock than out of a breathing, sweating, metabolising, ageing and supposedly sentient human being.

You know what? I’ve got my answer.

I’ll help myself. To a bourbon cream, I mean. And I’ll make you peppermint tea and you can drink it or not as you like.